


Never Give Up, Never Surrender

by joufancyhuh



Series: Starkhaven's Finest [19]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BAMF Trevelyan, Background appearances from the Amells and Cullen, Established Relationship, Ex-Templar Trevelyan, F/M, In the background of Here Lies The Abyss, NonInquisitor Trevelyan, Pregnant Trevelyan, Venatori
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joufancyhuh/pseuds/joufancyhuh
Summary: When Knight-Captain Rylen rides off toward the battle for Adamant, the Inquisition's enemies spot a chance to retake Griffon Wing Keep.
Relationships: Rylen/Female Trevelyan
Series: Starkhaven's Finest [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1232885
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Tangled Origins





	Never Give Up, Never Surrender

He wakes in the early grey of morning.

From the bed, eyes half-lidded but her attention fixed, Evelyn watches Rylen don his armor, checking each strap twice before moving on to the next piece. They don't speak but when he sits back on the bed to lace up his boots, she wriggles toward him. Pushing herself off the mattress, an arm loops around his shoulders and she buries her face in the warmth of his neck, her lips trailing light, lingering kisses close to his pulse. “Mmm,” she mumbles, dragging herself into a more comfortable position behind him and leaning forward, the metal edges of his armor poking her skin. “I should be going with you.” 

His hand ruffles her hair, further agitating the cowlicks of her bed head. It pauses before traveling back to tie his boots. "Aye, but you’re the one who got yourself knocked up.” 

Her teeth nip at the apex of his neck and shoulder in response, a forced chuckle her reward. When he turns, his arms wrap around her waist and lift her up and over onto his lap where she straddles his legs, careful not to tip and fall off the edge of the bed. “Your prick played a rather large part in that, thank you.” 

“Aye, it is large, isn’t it?” 

She steals the laughter from his throat, lips hard-pressed against his. The words she wishes for him to say stay locked there in the kiss, the promise to stay safe, to return back to her, to them. She knows battle as she has come to know the desert, and the sands of change shift too fast to predict the outcome. Lying only to put her at ease solves nothing. 

A kiss follows with another, each longer than its predecessor. Neither wants to move and greet the rising dawn, the awaiting army down in the sand. Each touch steals the breath from her lungs, and her chest hurts anew with the desire to join him in battle against the Wardens, to guard his back faithfully as she had in past years. 

With reluctance, he draws back enough to deliver a light peck on the nose. “They’re expecting me.” 

She frowns and takes a minute to trace the scar that cuts along his jawline. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says, her eyes traveling from the scar to where his blue eyes shine. “Block with something other than your face this time.” 

That remark earns her a snort, and he grabs yet another kiss, his lips pulled back in a half-smirk. “You know I’ll do my best, Evie.” 

“Better than your best,” she retorts as she rises off his lap, her bare feet meeting the floor. “I’ve managed to knock you down at your best, so you have to do better than that.” His helmet sits on a nearby table, and she grabs it and gives a half-hearted polish with the sleeve of her nightgown. He pulls his hood up as he walks over to her, and dips enough to let her position the helmet. 

Her lips brush the stubble on his cheek. “For luck,” she murmurs. 

“It’s no more dangerous than the other shit we’ve faced out here, Evie. I’ll be fine,” he replies when he leans back, his fingers lacing between hers. “We’ll be fine.” But the self-assuredness stems only from his voice, none of it reflecting in the worried lines cutting across his forehead. Her hand brings him to the crest of her swollen stomach, and he massages a small circle into it before turning to pick up his greaves from their place on the table. 

“Want me to walk you out?” 

He shakes his head. “The Inquisitor’s expecting us there before the sun breaks the horizon, and you’re not dressed.” His footsteps echo in the stairwell down to his office, and she breaks into a sprint, throwing off her gown for a more simple maternity dress, not bothering with shoes. 

By the time she reaches the Keep’s gates, Rylen’s in the middle of a rallying speech, the soldiers lined up in perfect rectangles to meet the bulk of the Inquisition’s forces across the ravine. She spies Hawke and her family at the start of one of the Circles, and envy clouds her vision. She should be out there with them, pregnancy or not. If Hawke can do it, then why not her? 

The soldiers begin to march, and Rylen turns one last time to glance back at her. “You’re in charge until I return.” 

She nods, swallowing the big lump forming in her throat, and he offers her one of his signature half-smiles in reply before setting out to join the front of the pack. 

* * *

“See, right there!” Mohamed jabs her finger at a shimmer on the horizon. 

Evelyn squints, tilting her head forward to try and follow the path Mohamed’s finger projects. But the only shimmer she sees is the heat of the sun on the sands below. “I think you’ve been out here for way too long, Mohamed. Trade places with Evans in the back, take a rest.” A boom sounds in the background, and both women glance in the direction of Adamant. Midday came and went, yet still the battle raged on. 

When their attention returns to each other, Mohamed shakes her head. “I can’t do that, Lieutenant. You and I both know that I’ve got more experience in these deserts than any of the rookies here. The Knight-Captain only left me behind because I twisted my ankle two nights ago.” Her jet black eyes return to the shifting sands in front of the Keep. “No, ma’am. Something about that shimmer, it’s not right.” 

Evelyn tries once more to spot the odd shimmer, but it all looks the same to her. Still, Net Mohamed is an old soldier, and soldiers trust their gut. If Rylen were there, he’d run a drill anyway as a safety precaution. “Round everyone up. If it is an attack, we can’t afford to be caught unaware.” Another boom comes from the fortress across the ravine, but both women ignore it. With most of their personnel over in the battle, the Keep makes a perfect target for any ambitious enemies. 

“And what of the civilians?” Mohamed’s eyes flicker to where the animal handler chats below with one of the Orlesian merchants.

“Them, too.” This time, Evelyn’s gaze catches it, a shimmer that appears to go in the opposite direction of the heat, subtle enough that she wonders how she detected it even this time. But no dark shapes broach the horizon. That means either rogues or mages, both worrying with the understaffed Keep and its green recruits. 

The baby kicks in response to her building anticipation, and she lays a soothing hand on her stomach while the other woman vaults down the stairs. “I don’t think sitting this out is an option anymore,” she mutters before taking one last stare into the horizon. 

Mohamed travels fast, and by the time Evelyn finishes sealing the gates, those left behind file into the market. The square, even with the stalls, leaves plenty of room for movement, proof of their dire circumstances. Those left behind look to her for guidance, five recruits too green for the battle across the ravine, four soldiers still aching from wounds (including Mohamed), and four civilians with a fearful glaze over their eyes. Cookie, their chef, separates himself from that pack by standing with his hands on his hips, jaw squared like he knows a fight’s coming and he’s planning to meet it head-on. 

“We have incoming,” she starts, because it needs to start somewhere and her mind reels with responsibilities and what’s left to do before the assault hits their walls. “We don’t know how many. We don’t know who. But anyone sneaking up on us isn’t exactly coming with a peace offering.” A few murmurs, a few nods of agreement. The baby punches this time, with enough force to leave her winded. She stops, hand on the side of her stomach, waiting to catch her breath before beginning again. 

Her least favorite vendor picks up during the pause, Orlesian lilt adding to the already high pitch of her voice. “We don’t have enough people to fight. We should run while we can, head toward a camp or the outpost.” 

Another merchant appears to want to agree with her, but his attention rests on Evelyn. “Perhaps she is right, Lieutenant. Most of us cannot fight, yourself included. What hope do we have?” 

_ If you wanted easy, you picked the wrong assignment _ , Evelyn bites the words back on her tongue. Instead, she squares her shoulders, her hand falling away to her side. “We’re not running,” she states as if it’s the most obvious thing in Thedas. “Our soldiers are over at Adamant in the fight of their lives right now.” As if to echo her point, another boom sounds across the way. “They aren’t giving up, and neither are we. As long as we’re here and able to fight, then that’s what we’re going to do. We owe it to them, and we owe it to ourselves.” 

Mohamed snaps to attention, firing off a salute in the hope that it inspires the others. “What are our orders, Lieutenant?” 

Evelyn nods, grateful for the assistance. “Those too wounded to take the field, pick up a bow and a quiver from the armory and head toward the towers. Those able to fight, we’re heading into the well and out the back of the cave. Once we clear that barrier, it’s one-way, which means our only way back in is through the front gate.” She then directs her attention toward the small group of civilians, all huddled around each other in a bit of a daze. “I’m not going to force you to fight, but we have armor and weapons if you do. Otherwise, find a hiding spot close to the well.”  _ In case we fail _ goes unsaid, but they catch the message. 

When they split up into groups, she notices that Cookie heads toward the armory. At least she got through to someone. 

A throat clears behind her, and when she spins to find the source, Mohamed narrows her eyes. “ _ We _ , ma’am? Please tell me you’re not thinking of heading out yourself.”

“My life isn’t more important than anyone else in this Keep.” Evelyn begins to march toward the armory. With her protruding stomach, her armor isn’t going to fit. She needs something larger, even if ill-fitting. 

“Then fire arrows with the rest of them,” Mohamed retorts. “If you go out there, you’re an easy target.” 

“You forget that I actually know how to fight.” Evelyn lets herself into the armory tent as Cookie leaves, strapped into an old set of armor but exuding the bravery of ten soldiers. A warrior by the stance of him. Cookie never talked of his past before Inquisition, and Rylen granted him the respect not to pry. Still, that never quelled her curiosity, especially now. 

Mohamed follows her inside. “We only need to hold out until Adamant’s won.” 

Evelyn picks a chest piece out from one of the excess supply crates and holds it to her. Even though it’s too large in the chest area, it doesn’t fit around her protruding belly. With a slow shake to her head, she continues her search. “We don’t know how long that’ll be.” The next chest piece has more than a few dings, but it encompasses her girth, and that’s all that matters. “If they want the Keep, we’re going to make them work for it.” 

“You’re a madwoman, Trevelyan,” Mohamed says, but a reluctant grin pulls the corners of her lips. “I can see there’s no talking you out of this.” 

“No, there’s not.” 

Without asking, Mohamed moves forward to help with the straps. Her brow furrows as she notes the gaps, but the argument ends, both realizing this will have to suffice. “I see why the Knight-Captain’s so infatuated with you. A shame I didn’t meet you first.” The armor squeezes her, the baby retaliating with constant kicking and pushing against it. It rubs against her, a sign for future blisters and chafing, but the armor stays on and she can ask nothing else of it. 

Evelyn chuckles, the sensation like splashing her face with water. But all too soon her mood fades back into seriousness. “If anything happens …” 

“I won’t let it, ma’am.”

“Listen to me.” Evelyn steps away to find the remaining pieces of armor. It’s not worth heading back to her room for her armor, not when it might not even fit. Best to mix and match there in the tent. “I’m just another soldier. If I fall, you’re next in the chain of command.” 

Mohamed repeats herself, and Evelyn scowls before laying a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t throw your life away for me, Net. I want you to be at your best, not distracted by this self-assigned mission of yours.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell that to the Knight-Captain.” Mohamed rolls her eyes, mouth twisting into a frown. 

* * *

The Venatori lay siege to the Keep gates, uncloaked with their initial attack. Evelyn counts fifteen from where she and her team dig into the sand, unseen around the side. Her group consists of eight total, no mages, no ex-Templars other than herself, and she doesn’t even know if she counts because Maker, it’s been over a year since she tastes lyrium but the call of it entices her even now, especially now; she almost wishes for rogues. The baby hasn’t stopped moving since her boots hit the ground, or maybe that’s her stomach, and the armor she adorns has so many weak spots that she might as well have come out without it. 

But she needs to say something so these recruits (and Cookie) know what they’re up against. They huddle around her, waiting to run onto the field. “Mages,” she begins, then stops herself. Not just any mages; they should know the difference. “Venatori,” she corrects. “They’re not particularly skilled in close-combat, but the trick is getting close enough to hit.” There’s a crack of lightning, raising the hair on her arm. Time to move the speech along faster. “They’re blood mages, doesn’t matter whose blood. If you have shields, use them. Get in close and take them out.” 

One last look around, she meets every person’s eyes. How many of them would survive the day? Would she? With a prayer to the Maker, she draws her sword and stands upright. “Charge!” she shouts, and they’re running away from their cover toward the chaos unfolding out front. Only one of the wounded has actual archery skills, but it takes a distraction like theirs to land a shot, right in the side of the closest Venatori’s neck.

_ One down, fourteen to go.  _

There’s a Venatori aiming in her direction, and she doesn’t hesitate before gathering her strength and squeezing their flow of magic to a bare trickle. The Silence knocks the wind from her lungs, but she holds steady, even as light swims before her eyes. Luckily, Mohamed notices the mage’s trouble calling upon their magic and cuts through them. Sweet relief washes over Evelyn as her hold snaps, and she takes a second to regain her balance. Without lyrium, the attack exhausts her; she won’t be able to do it, any of her templar training techniques, again. Not in this fight. 

_ Thirteen left.  _

One of the recruits gets a lucky strike across the field, but so do the Venatori. Lightning burns through him, and he falls, nothing more than a smoldering heap. He was shy of twenty-one, a bright young Marcher named Hux. 

But there’s no time to mourn. Evelyn angles her shield so that the fire thrown in her direction reflects toward another mage, and by the time the commotion ends, Evelyn sinks her blade through them both. 

_ Ten. _

But her body grows languid in the heat, and each step weighs her down. Two more Venatori fall closer to the gate, but they begin to blur together into some undefinable mass and Evelyn can’t recall the number left, can’t recall anything as she takes a knee in the sand, shield digging in to keep her upright. And then excruciating pain jolts every nerve in her body; she screams as the world around her goes black.

* * *

“West quarter cleared.”

“East quarter as well.” 

“Still searching the North.” 

“South is clear.”

Rylen turns to meet Cullen’s gaze after hearing the check-ins, but the Commander’s eyes stare into nothingness, toward the North quarter where the Inquisitor was last seen before her disappearance. Hawke’s vanished, too, alongside her brother, but he tries not to think of his friend. If they’re together, they’ll pull through. Hawke’s scrappy, and the Inquisitor is a dangerous force unto herself. 

“Orders, Commander?” With the battle for Adamant won and the Wardens rounded up, the most pressing issue comes from the disappearances. But with very little control over it, Rylen set his mind to a few other tasks the Inquisition soldiers could begin, such as helping themselves to Warden supplies or getting the wounded back to the Keep for rest. Plus, Evelyn and the others might like to know of their victory if they didn’t figure it out for themselves. 

Cullen shakes his head, still more than a little dazed, and Rylen recognizes the expression from dealing with Evelyn; the lyrium withdrawal fogs his thoughts and Cullen struggles to remember either what they need to do or what they’re currently doing. But the Commander won’t voice it, as Evelyn refused to, so Rylen steps up and asks permission before assigning soldiers to tasks. Cullen gifts him an uneasy yet grateful smile, but it fades quickly as his eyes catch sight of someone. 

Tabitha Amell and her sister crouch a few yards away, the green glow of healing magic stemming from her hand over a downed soldier. No wonder Cullen’s gone white as a ghost. The man refuses to deal with that particular person-shaped problem, despite Rylen’s insistence to tackle it head-on. 

A crow cuts across the sky to settle on Rylen’s shoulder. It caws at him for notice, then sticks its foot out, a piece of parchment tied around its leg. 

“What’s it say?” Cullen scoots in closer to try to read over Rylen’s shoulder but stops when Rylen glances up in horror. 

“Evie’s hurt,” he manages to say before shoving the paper at Cullen. “Send people over when you can, but I’m heading out now.” 

Cullen reads over the missive:  _ Attack on Keep. Some injured, some dead. Need healers.  _ Nothing about Evelyn. He trails in Rylen’s shadow as the other man gathers up a few potions, not noticing the direction in which they head until it’s too late. 

Lording over the Amell women, Rylen beckons them with a finger. “One or both of you, doesn’t matter who, come with me.”

“It doesn’t say her name,” Cullen protests, desperately trying not to make contact with Tabitha who also looks everywhere but him, though her cheeks darken. Her sister snickers as she straightens her back.

“That’s not her handwriting,” Rylen retorts as if it answers Cullen’s remark. 

Tabitha rises to follow her sister’s pace, leaving Cullen behind to toss orders around Adamant. Solona stalks Rylen’s brisk pace down to where the mounts stationed, and he doesn’t wait for them before saddling up onto a mean-eyed dracolisk. “To the Keep,” he states, then takes off, not waiting for them to hop on their own mounts. 

The ride back takes too long, leaving his mind to pose the question of what category Evelyn falls into: dead or wounded. Closer to Griffon Wing Keep, he notes the bodies out in front, Venatori by the cut of their cloaks, and not a small number either. The walls bear scorch marks with some stones missing from their settings. 

The gates stand open and Net Mohamed waits for him by the entrance, a hand running through her shorn hair as she chews her bottom lip. “Knight-Captain,” she nods at his approach, correcting her posture. 

He grants her a cursory nod but doesn’t stop his march through the Keep. “Where is she?”

“The healing tent, sir.” Net matches his long strides with her own. “The tail end of a lightning strike caught her off-guard.”

“What was she doing out there in the first place?” 

Net sticks her arm in front of him, effective in stopping his route, then positions herself into his direct line of sight. “Sir, you’ve seen the bodies outside by now. We went out there with eight people, eight! And yet, we remain standing because of her. I don’t know if the result would’ve been the same had she stayed behind.” 

His huff follows involuntary, but Evelyn heading out to fight, especially in a situation this dire, she wouldn’t be the woman he loves if she did anything less. But when he finally sees her, slack on a cot, her arm dangling off the edge, his need to protest her involvement resurfaces. Net departs from his side before he fully enters the tent. 

“Blast it, Evie,” he swears, kneeling by the cot and brushing his knuckles along the curve of her face. Her chest doesn’t move, not enough for him to notice. When he places two fingers under the curve of her jaw, her pulse beats faintly against them. His thoughts then drift toward the bairn, especially with Evelyn so pale and frail. Did they both make it through? 

Eventually, Tabitha Amell sneaks into the tent but stays back toward the opening. His Templar senses pick up her magic without even a glance in her direction. “She’s alive,” he murmurs. “But she’s not waking up. And I-” his voice chokes as his hand slides to Evelyn’s swollen belly, but Tabitha nods, catching the meaning of his sentence. 

“Sol knows more about pregnancies than I do, but I believe there’s a way for us to check. I’ll grab her for you.” 

“Thank you.” His fingers intertwine with Evelyn’s, and he squeezes, half-expecting her to respond in kind, but nothing happens. 

When Tabitha leaves, her sister quickly fills her place. Solona pushes up the sleeves of her shirt to her elbows, then leans over both Rylen and Evelyn, hands stretched out above Evelyn’s stomach. “This may take a minute,” she says as a white glow branches out from her palms. Another glow echoes back from inside Evelyn, dim but shining. 

His attention turns to the mage for guidance. “That’s a good sign, aye?”

The light fades, and Solona steps back, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand. “Everything’s fine,” she says with a grin. “Still there, still breathing or whatever it is babies do at this stage. As for Evie, give her a couple of days to sleep it off.” Solona shrugs, perfecting her air of indifference. “There’s nothing anyone can do for her, so I’m going to see if anyone else needs my help before I head down to the kitchen. I heard someone mention food.” And with that, she slips away, leaving Rylen alone with Evelyn. 

* * *

Consciousness drags Evelyn back like the ebb and flow of an ocean tide. She wakes several times - thirsty, foggy, the baby pressing against her bladder - but then drifts once more into the comfortable dark of sleep. By the time she fully awakens, her throat cracks with dryness, her sheets soaked through with sweat, and her immediate thought is how to alleviate the building pressure in her bladder. 

The trip to the chamberpot taxes her, dizziness leaving her grasping edges of furniture to keep her upright. But she pushes on, and by the time she finishes relieving herself, some of the mist lifts enough for her to remember the fight out in front of the Keep. Her hands land on the crest of her stomach, and she rubs little circles into it while passing silent prayers through her thoughts. 

The baby pushes against the warmth of her hands, as strong as ever, and with that, she breathes a sigh of relief. On shaky legs, she returns to the bed to sit at the edge. A cup of water sits alone on the nightstand, and she greedily drinks from it, the water helping to quench her thirst. In her bedroom, a thoughtful gesture nearby -- Did Rylen return from Adamant? How long was she out?

As if an answer to her thoughts, the office door below opens then shuts, followed by the sound of boots marching up the stairs. “I’m only going to check on her. Then we can head out.” Rylen’s voice floats into the room, accompanied shortly after by the sight of him. A smile blossoms as his eyes meet hers, and he damn near trips over himself in his rush to her. 

“Brat,” he teases, all he manages to speak before his lips set upon her in a longing greeting. She sinks into it, her body still exhausted but not wanting the touch to halt. But it ends too soon, and he places his hands on her shoulders, forehead leaning against hers. “I thought we agreed to bench you?” 

A soft laugh, more of an exhalation, leaves her throat. None of her wants the argument that follows his admonishment, more than ready to curl right back up and return to her slumber. Damn him for starting with that. “Next time, don’t leave us so underprepared.” Annoyance tinges her voice, from both the subject matter and her own exhaustion.

“Trust me when I say that oversight won’t happen twice.” He moves away only to sit beside her on the bed. “We won, by the way. Thank you for asking.” 

“You’re here, aren’t you?” She closes her eyes and leans into his shoulder as he wraps his arm around her. He smells like sweat and sand, sun and the faint sweet traces of lyrium. “I know it was reckless-”

“I didn’t say that, lass. Don’t put words in my mouth.” Rylen kisses her crown before resting his cheek there, drawing her in closer despite his bulky armor that pokes and digs into her. “You did what the situation called for. I’m only glad the both of you are alive.” 

“No fight?” Her yawn ends up muffled into his neck, her arms circling his neck to better her grip on him and help with remaining upright. Sleep tugs too hard to resist the siren song.

His chuckle sounds like reassurance as his hand moves up and down her back. “You sound a wee bit disappointed at that.” She curls further into him, and he lets her linger before maneuvering her back toward the pillows. “Get some more rest, Evie. I’m heading out to check on the camps, but I’ll return soon. We can discuss it later if you wish.” 

“Later sounds terrific,” she mumbles, and it’s only a breath before the tide of rest drags her away again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Other titles that were considered:
> 
> A Game Of Keep Away  
> Get These Motherfucking Venatori Off My Motherfucking Keep  
> Surprise, Motherfucker  
> Here Lies The Background Characters


End file.
